Miami Run

by David Robbins

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “If you’d wanted me dead,” Blade said, “I’d be dead by now. You wanted both of us alive.”

  Chuckling, the man with the mustache lowered the M-16. “A man of courage and insight. I like that. Yes, we were under orders to take both of you alive. Your friend was most impetuoso, yes? And most tonto.”

  “Tonto?”

  “Foolish.”

  Twelve hardened figures now hemmed in the Warrior.

  Blade stared at the obviously professional squad, then up at the ten on the wall.

  The man in charge noticed the giant’s gaze. “They were on the wall the whole time, lying flat next to the wire. You couldn’t see them from the ground. The top of the wall is a yard across.”

  Blade frowned. “We walked right into it,” he said in self-reproach.

  The tall man nodded. “We were waiting for you most of the night.” He paused and extended his right hand. “I am called El Gato. The Cat.”

  Surprised at Cat’s seemingly authentic friendliness, Blade shook. “I must examine my friend.”

  “We will take care of him, señor,” Cat said. He motioned to two of his men, and the pair promptly slung their weapons over their shoulders and lifted the gunfighter by the arms. “Take him to the infirmary,” he ordered.

  “You have an infirmary here?” Blade asked.

  “Si,” Cat replied. “Mr. Paolucci provides for all of our needs. There are accidents from time to time, snakebites and such, and occasional sickness.

  We need a doctor on the premises. The medicos in the city are too far away.”

  The pair of guards lifted Hickok by the arms and draped him between them. They hurried to the north.

  “And now, Señor Blade,” Cat said, “I will have your Bowies.”

  Blade’s mouth slackened in astonishment.

  Cat laughed. “Si. I know your name.”

  “But how?” Blade blurted.

  “Sefior Paolucci will explain everything to you,” Cat stated. “But first—”

  He looked up at the men on the wall. “Gehret.”

  A stocky man with blond hair and an Uzi snapped to attention. “Yes, sir?”

  “Take eight men with you and go find the third one,” Cat directed. “The one in black. Leave Webster on the wall.”

  Gehret saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  El Gato gestured at the Bowies. “And now, Blade, your knives. Don’t forget the gun behind your back, the derringer, and the backpack.” He raised his left hand and his men sighted on the Warrior.

  Inwardly seething, Blade nonetheless smiled placidly. El Gato was a pro; he’d detected the Browning and the derringer’s outline easily. The Warrior removed the backpack, Cat snapped his fingers, and one of the guards stepped forward to take the gear.

  “Your men are well trained,” Blade remarked.

  “Yes,” Cat agreed. “But they are not my men. They are the Director’s men, Mr. Paolucci’s men. I am but a captain.”

  “Mr. Paolucci has his own little army,” Blade deduced.

  “He needs one,” Cat said, nodding toward the break in the hedge. “After you.”

  Blade walked into the gardens.

  “Go straight,” Cat declared, staying on the giant’s right.

  The lush collection of plants was more impressive close up. Every conceivable variety appeared to be represented.

  Blade glanced over his right shoulder. Gehret and eight others were descending the wall using a narrow flight of stairs 20 feet to the east of the south door.

  “They will have your friend in custody within fifteen minutes,” Cat predicted.

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Blade responded.

  “Mr. Paolucci hires only the best mercenaries,” Cat stated. “Your friend in black is as good as captured.”

  “You don’t know my friend,” Blade said. “I hope your men are expendable.”

  Cat laughed. “I like you, gringo.”

  “Oh?” Blade commented skeptically. He followed a worn path to the north, inhaling the heady fragrance of the myriad of flowers.

  “I am sincere, señor,” Cat insisted. “Call it professional courtesy, from one man of reputation to another.”

  “I have a reputation?”

  “You are playing games with me,” Cat said. “The fame of the Warriors has spread far and wide. We have even heard of you here.”

  Blade’s brow creased in confusion. What else did Cat know?

  Cat observed the giant’s expression and chuckled. “So many questions, eh?”

  “This is an unexpected development,” Blade admitted.

  “Be patient. Mr. Paolucci will answer everything. He has been looking forward to your arrival.”

  Blade caught sight of buildings. A large red barn appeared to the east, and to the north loomed a four-story, sprawling, magnificent house with a portico supported by marble columns. “Where is the infirmary?” he asked.

  Cat pointed to the west.

  Blade gazed in that direction and discovered another structure, the barracks Barbish had told them about, a low wooden building with several doors and a green roof. Of course, the Dealer had conveniently lied about the size of the guard contingent. A large sign imprinted in red with the word INFIRMARY was attached above the northernmost door. The door was open, and the two guards responsible for conveying Hickok were standing outside, conversing.

  “They will bring word as soon as your friend has been examined,” Cat said. “What is his name anyway?”

  “Hickok.”

  “So that was Hickok?” Cat remarked. “I did not expect him to be so rash.”

  “You’ve heard of Hickok too?”

  “Si.”

  “How many Warriors do you know by name?”

  Cat Grinned. “Mr. Paolucci has talked about four of you by name.

  Hickok, an Indian named Geronimo, the hombre they call the Dispenser of Death—Yama, and yourself.” He paused. “There was an unconfirmed report concerning a small man in black, but his name was unknown.”

  “Where did this report come from?”

  “You must ask Mr. Paolucci.”

  Blade looked over his left shoulder at the mercenaries. One was carrying his Bowies, the Browning, and the derringer, and a second was bearing the Paratrooper, the Henry, and the backpack.

  “They say you are quite skilled with your knives,” Cat commented.

  Blade said nothing.

  “Perhaps we will have the chance to test your mettle,” Cat stated. “You and I, eh? Mano a mano. One on one.”

  “You sound like you’d enjoy it.”

  “Si, Blade. I would,” Cat confessed. “There is very little action at Happy Acres.” He spoke the last two words contemptuously. “A man of my expertise, my caliber, needs challenges. Without action, what use are the talents we have? When Mr. Paolucci told us you were coming, I was overjoyed. This is the first action I’ve seen in two years. No one else would have the cojones to take on the Dragons. You have my respect, amigo.”

  Blade stared into Cat’s dark eyes, only four inches lower than his own.

  He perceived that the mercenary was sincere.

  “Yes,” Cat went on. “I will be glad when my contract is up. Another six months and I can return to Colombia.”

  “You’re from South America?”

  “Si. Why do you sound so surprised?”

  “I suppose I expected you to be from Miami.”

  Cat snorted. “That sewer? Give me the green hills of Colombia any day!”

  “How did South America fare during the war?”

  “There were not any nuclear strikes on South American soil,” Cat replied. “But most of the governments fell apart. The winds brought a lot of radiation, and there was much sickness and death.”

  “And now?”

  “Colombia is ruled by the Cartel,” Cat disclosed. His eyes narrowed as he gazed ahead.

  Blade faced the house.

  A man was awaiting them on the b
ottom step of the portico, a stately individual attired in an immaculate white suit and matching shoes. His hair was black, tinged with gray at the ears. Frank blue eyes watched the Warrior approach. The man’s face was leonine in aspect. Here was a man accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed. Here was a man of power.

  Cat stepped in front of the Warrior and saluted. “Here he is, Mr. Paolucci. Just as you wanted.”

  Paolucci raked Blade from head to toe with a critical gaze. “I heard shooting.”

  “Hickok tried to resist. He’s in the infirmary,” Cat detailed.

  “And the third one?”

  “Sergeant Gehret is out after him as we speak,” Cat said.

  Paolucci smiled at El Gato. “Well done.” He walked up to the Warrior and offered his right hand. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Blade. My name is Arlo Paolucci.”

  Blade shook the Director’s hand. “I know.”

  “Ahhh. Yes. Tom Barbish. Where is Mr. Barbish? I expected him to arrive with you.”

  Blade slashed his right forefinger across his throat.

  “Really? You?”

  “No,” Blade said. “I can’t claim the credit. A mutant made a snack out of your Dealer friend.”

  “Barbish was a business associate,” Paolucci said. “Not a close friend.

  His betrayal necessitated his termination, and I’m happy the mutant has saved me the trouble.” He moved to the east, nodding at a white table ringed by four white chairs. “Why don’t we take a seat and continue our discussion in a civilized vein?”

  El Gato nodded at the men toting the weapons, and the duo hurried to the table and deposited their loads. At a jerk of Cat’s right arm, the mercenaries fanned out around the table.

  “Simply a precaution, you understand,” Paolucci said to the Warrior.

  Blade nodded. He took a chair on the south side of the table.

  The Director stepped to the chair on the opposite side. As he sat down, a petite, dark-haired woman in a white blouse, white skirt, and a white apron hastened to him.

  “Refreshments, señor?”

  “Yes, Maria,” Paolucci said. He looked at Blade. “What would you like? We have tea, coffee, milk, fruit juice, water, or any liquor you can name.”

  “Do you have raspberry juice?” Blade asked.

  Paolucci looked at Maria, who shook her head. The Director’s mouth curled downward. “I apologize for the oversight.”

  “No big deal,” Blade said. “Raspberry juice is my favorite, but I can live with grape juice, if you have any.”

  “We do, señor,” Maria assured him.

  Paolucci waved his right hand, and Maria took off for the house at a run.

  “Are you always up at this time of the night?” Blade inquired.

  The Director smiled. “My business activities demand unusual hours.

  But no, I would have been asleep tonight, if it wasn’t for your arrival. I wanted to be up, to greet you in person, to bid you welcome.”

  “How kind of you,” Blade said sarcastically.

  “There’s no need to be nasty,” Paolucci stated. “Crudity from a man of your stature insults both of us.”

  The light from a floodlight at the eastern corner of the house cast a glimmering reflection on the weapons piled on the table. Blade glanced at the Paratrooper, estimating his chances of successfully making a bid for freedom. With the table encircled by mercenaries, and El Gato standing four feet to his right, any precipitous movement on his part would be met by a hail of lead. Wisdom dictated sitting tight, biding his time. He stared to his left at the infirmary 50 yards distant, suppressing his anxiety over Hickok. Why had the gunfighter pulled such an inane stunt? Hickok was impetuous, true, but the gunman wasn’t an idiot; his gambit at the south door made no sense.

  “I was quite surprised to learn of your presence in Miami,” the Director commented.

  “How did you find out?”

  “I was called by one of Barbish’s people fifteen minutes after you took him from the Oasis,” Paolucci divulged. “It wasn’t terribly difficult to put two and two together. When my caller described the three men responsible for the abduction, I remembered the descriptions I’d been given of yourself and a few of your colleagues.”

  “But how did you know it was me?”

  The Director smiled. “How many seven-foot men with Bowie knives are traipsing around the country?”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Blade said. “How did you know about me, about the Warriors? Where did you hear about us?”

  “From the Masters,” Paolucci answered.

  “How did they learn about the Warriors?”

  “You’ll need to ask them,” the Director said.

  “They didn’t tell you?”

  “No,” Paolucci said. “And I’m not about to pry into their affairs. As a Director, my job is to carry out their wishes, not to pry into their sources.”

  “How much were you told?”

  Paolucci leaned back in his chair. “The Masters held a conclave with all of the Directors in attendance. We were told about this group in Minnesota, the Family, and provided with convincing evidence of the Family’s threat to our operation.”

  “What are you talking about?” Blade demanded. “How can the Family be a threat when our Home is located over two thousand miles from Miami?”

  “If the Masters see your Family as a threat, then you’re a threat,” Paolucci maintained.

  “What else did they inform you of?”

  “We were provided with a brief description of your administrative organization,” the Director said. “We learned about the Elders, about your Leader, Plato, and about the Warriors.”

  “And did the Masters happen to reveal their plans for the Family?”

  Paolucci nodded. “Complete eradication.”

  “Then the report we heard was true,” Blade commented.

  “Now it’s my turn,” the Director stated. “I’ve answered all of your questions, and I expect you to extend the same courtesy.” He paused as Maria approached with a silver tray containing liquid refreshments. She placed the tray on the table, picked up a glass filled with grape juice, and handed the drink to the Warrior.

  “Your grape juice, señor.”

  “Thank you,” Blade said.

  “That will be all, Maria,” Paolucci stated stiffly.

  Maria glanced nervously at the Director, then departed.

  “I’ll talk to her about the raspberry juice,” Paolucci commented.

  “Talk to her?” Blade repeated, and took a sip.

  “I pride myself on running an orderly household,” the Director said.

  “My servants perform their duties impeccably, or they don’t work for me very long.” His tone lowered ominously. “I despise imperfection.”

  “So what if you’re out of raspberry juice,” Blade responded. “It’s not worth getting upset about.”

  “To you,” Paolucci said sternly. He abruptly smiled. “But enough of this.

  Where were we? I believe you were going to answer my questions.”

  “I never said I’d answer anything.”

  “But I answered all of yours,” the Director declared.

  “That doesn’t make us best friends,” Blade quipped.

  Paolucci’s lips compressed. To cover his chagrin, he reached for a pitcher of red juice. “Tomato juice,” he explained. “My favorite.” He poured the tomato juice into an empty glass, set down the pitcher, and reached for the glass. His fingers were an inch away when the predawn quietude was shattered by the blast of gunfire.

  From the infirmary.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sergeant Ambrose Gehret hustled his men across the cleared strip and into the trees to the south of the compound. He stopped under the willow, the same willow he’d seen the giant and the guy in buckskins dart from when they’d approached the wall. As he expected, the man in black was gone.

  “We’re after one man, Sarge?” asked a tanned, experienced s
oldier to his rear.

  Gehret nodded.

  “We won’t even work up a sweat,” Stanz remarked.

  Gehret turned to his men. “Listen up!” He recalled an episode earlier that night. Shooting the breeze with El Gato near the barn, both of them had been surprised to see the Director running toward them from the house. The Director, displaying an uncharacteristic uneasiness, had told them about Barbish’s abduction, about his belief that the Warriors were involved. Gehret had been secretly amused at the Director’s ill-concealed anxiety. Paolucci had expressed his belief that the Warriors were on their way to Happy Acres, based on the assumption the Warriors would not go to all the trouble to snatch the Dealer alive without a specific purpose.

  And what better reason than to compel the Dealer to take them to Barbish’s superior in the Dragons? Gehret had to hand it to Paolucci. The Director had been right on the money. “In case you didn’t hear, we’re after a Warrior.” He said the name scornfully.

  “What’s a Warrior?” Stanz asked.

  “They’re supposed to be real hotshots,” Gehret replied. “The one we’re after is dressed in black. He must know his pals have been caught. I doubt he’ll go very far. We’ll divide up into three teams. Stanz, take two men with you and sweep to the west, then north. Check under every tree and behind every bush.”

  Corporal Stanz nodded. He looked at two of the mercenaries and wagged his right thumb westward. The trio hurried off.

  Sergeant Gehret glanced at one of his men. “Weber, take two men with you,” he directed. “Go east, all the way around the compound until you join up with Stanz.”

  Private Weber selected a pair of men and off they went.

  “Right,” Gehret said, staring at the remaining duo. “The south side is all ours. Let’s go.” He advanced into the undergrowth, his men flanking him.

  The mercenaries dispersed in three directions of the compass, and as their stealthy footfalls faded, a lithe, pantherish form dropped from the overspreading limbs of the willow to the ground.

  The hunted was now the hunter.

  Sergeant Gehret was becoming increasingly annoyed at the minutes elapsed without a sign of the Warrior. No trace at all! Not one of the other search parties had signaled, not so much as a single shot had been fired.